Life would be so kick ass if we periodically broke out into perfectly choreographed song and dance routines. At the very least, it would keep my friends from looking at me uncomfortably when I do this now.

While I can't do math, I know all the lyrics to roughly a million songs. It seems like God decided that all the brain space that normally gets devoted to math would be used to store the words to songs like "Safety Dance."

I love that Prince needs a hip replacement. Does that mean he is old? Possibly too old for someone my age to lust after in such an impure way? No. Oh, no. What that means is that it will be easier for me to catch his sexy ass.

I listened to Pavarotti sing Nessun Dorma while driving to work today. I played it ear-shatteringly loud. In fact, commuters traveling three cars behind me could probably hear Pavarotti's undulating voice building to a momentous crest before breaking across the highway in velvet waves. I let those words gather on the skin. I let them sink into my bones. They filled me. I was the love Pavarotti sang about. I exalted. It took every shred of self-control I had to not skid across the highway, crash into a ditch, turn on my computer, and start typing a sonnet...

I am unusually tired and hot flashy lately and keep having to remind myself that I am most certainly old enough to be experiencing The Perimenopause. I went to a Barry Manilow concert and liked it; one would think that would tip me off.

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